The Story of Antony Grace. George Manville Fenn
“Yes, sir.”
“And ain’t very comfortable, eh?”
“Oh no, sir! It’s a very uncomfortable place.”
“Ah, I shall have to find her a place after all! She might just as well have said yes last time, instead of going into a tantrum. I say, come; you ain’t half eating. I shall write and tell her I’ve seen you.”
If I was half eating before, I was eating nothing now, for his words suggested discovery, and my being given up to Mr. Blakeford: when, seeing my dismay, my host laughed at me.
“There, get on with your toke, youngster. If I tell Mary where you are, you don’t suppose she’ll go and tell old Blakeford?”
“Oh no, sir! she wouldn’t do that,” I said, taking heart again, and resuming my breakfast.
“And I say, youngster, suppose you don’t say sir to me any more. I’m only a policeman, you know. I say, you were a bit scared last night, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir—yes, I mean, I was very much afraid.”
“Ah, that’s the majesty of the law, that is! Do you know, I’ve only got to go into a crowd, and just give my head a nod, and they disperse directly. The police have wonderful power in London.”
“Have they, sir?”
“Wonderful, my lad. We can do anything we like, so long as it’s men. Hundreds of ’em ’ll give way before a half-dozen of us. It’s only when we’ve got to deal with the women that we get beat; and that ain’t no shame, is it?”
“No, sir,” I said, though I had not the faintest notion why. “You’re quite right,” he said; “it ain’t no shame. What! Have you done?”
“Yes, sir—yes, I mean.”
“Won’t you have that other cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Then I will,” he said, suiting the action to the word. “Well, now then, youngster, what are you going to do, eh?”
“I’m going to try and find Mr. Rowle’s brother, sir, at a great printing-office,” I said, searching my pockets, and at last finding the address given me. “Perhaps he’ll help me to find a situation.”
“Ah, p’r’aps so. They do have boys in printing-offices. Now, if you were a bit bigger you might have joined the police, and got to be a sergeant some day. It’s a bad job, but it can’t be helped. You must grow.”
“I am growing fast, sir,” I replied.
“Ah, I s’pose so. Well, now lookye here. You go and see Mr. Rowle, and hear what he says, and then come back to me.”
“Come back here?” I said, hesitating.
“Unless you’ve got somewhere better to go, my lad. There, don’t you mind coming. You’re an old friend o’ my Mary, and so you’re an old friend o’ mine. So, for a week, or a fortnight, or a month, if you like to bunk down along o’ me till you can get settled, why, you’re welcome; and if a man can say a better word than that, why, tell him how.”
“I—I should be very, very grateful if you would give me a night or two’s lodging, sir,” I said, “and—and I’ve got six shillings yet.”
“Then don’t you spend more than you can help, youngster. Do you know what’s the cheapest dinner you can get?”
“No, sir—no, I mean.”
“Penny loaf and a pen’orth o’ cheese. You come back here and have tea along o’ me. I don’t go on duty till night. There, no shuffling,” he said, grinning. “If you don’t come back I’ll write and tell old Blakeford.”
I could see that he did not mean it, and soon after I left my bundle there, and started off to try if I could find Mr. Rowle’s brother at the great printing-office in Short Street, Fetter Lane.
Chapter Fifteen.
“Boys Wanted.”
I went over the address in my own mind to make sure, and also repeated the directions given me by Mr. Revitts, so as to make no mistake in going into the City. Then I thought over again Mr. Rowle’s remarks about his brother, his name, Jabez, his age, and his being exactly like himself. That would, I thought, make it easy for me to recognise him; and in this spirit I walked on through the busy streets, feeling a good deal confused at being pushed and hustled about so much, while twice I was nearly run over in crossing the roads.
At last, after asking, by Mr. Revitts’ advice, my way of different policemen when I was at fault, I found myself soon after two in Short Street, Fetter Lane, facing a pile of buildings from the base of which came the hiss and pant of steam, with the whirr, clang, and roar of machinery; while on the doorpost was a bright zinc plate with the legend “Ruddle and Lister, General Printers;” and above that, written on a card in a large legible hand, and tacked against the woodwork, the words “Boys Wanted.”
This announcement seemed to take away my breath, and I hesitated for a few minutes before I dared approach the place; but I went up at last, and then, seeing a severe-looking man in a glass box reading a newspaper, I shrank back and walked on a little way, forgetting all about Mr. Jabez Rowle in my anxiety to try and obtain a situation by whose means I could earn my living.
At last, in a fit of desperation, I went up to the glass case, and the man reading the newspaper let it fall upon his knees and opened a little window.
“Now then, what is it?” he said in a gruff voice.
“If you please, sir, there’s a notice about boys wanted—”
“Down that passage, upstairs, first floor,” said the man gruffly, and banged down the window.
I was a little taken aback, but I pushed a swing-door, and went with a beating heart along the passage, on one side of which were rooms fitted up something like Mr. Blakeford’s office, and on the other side a great open floor stacked with reams of paper, and with laths all over the ceiling, upon which boys with curious pieces of wood, something like long wooden crutches, were hanging up sheets of paper to dry, while at broad tables by the windows I could see women busily folding more sheets of paper, as if making books.
It was but a casual glance I had as I passed on, and then went by a room with the door half open and the floor carpeted inside. There was a pleasant, musical voice speaking, and then there was a burst of laughter, all of which seemed out of keeping in that dingy place, full of the throb of machinery, and the odour of oil and steam.
At the end of the passage was the staircase, and going up, I was nearly knocked over by a tall, fat-headed boy, who blundered roughly against me, and then turned round to cry indignantly—
“Now, stoopid, where are yer a-coming to?”
“Can you tell me, please, where I am to ask about boys being wanted?” I said mildly.
“Oh, find out! There ain’t no boys wanted here.”
“Not wanted here!” I faltered, with my hopes terribly dashed, for I had been building castles high in the air.
“No; be off!” he said roughly, when a new character appeared on the scene in the shape of a business-looking man in a white apron, carrying down an iron frame, and having one hand at liberty, he made use of it to give the big lad a cuff on the ear.
“You make haste and fetch up those galleys, Jem Smith;” and the boy went on down three stairs at a time. “What do you want, my man?” he continued,